


Ponce De Leon Avenue

by flawlessassholes



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Antisemitism, Bisexual Male Character, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Immortality, Jewish Character, Jewish John Silver, Multi, Original Character Death(s), Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-07-16
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawlessassholes/pseuds/flawlessassholes
Summary: "Hey," He says, his eyes crinkling. "You think we've found the Fountain of Youth?"Silver snorts. "I hope not. You'd be terrible at being immortal."---After the events of 2x01, Flint and Silver leave for St. Augustine and find the Fountain of Youth.





	1. Chapter 1

“St. Augustine is that way,” Flint says, standing, his boots now unlaced. “It’s at least a week on foot, Tequesta tribes in-between, I doubt you’ll survive to see sunrise tomorrow.”

Flint pauses, and looks out at sea, the Man-of-War drifting in the distance. His shoulder aches, the blood tacky against his skin. The sun beats down his back. He is exhausted. He wishes Silver just left him in the goddamn ocean to drown. 

“You know what?” He says, turning towards Silver. “Fine. Let’s go to St. Augustine.” 

Silver blinks. He looks confused. “Wait, really?” 

“Yes,” Flint says, sitting back down to lace up his boots. “We’ll steal some gold, and then head towards St. Augustine. From there, we’ll find passage back to Nassau, and get my fucking gold.” 

“Right, of course. The gold.” Silver is still standing there, looking like a dumbfounded idiot. “And— sorry, you're agreeing with me?” 

Flint sighs a heavy sigh. “Yes. Now, hurry. We need to leave before nightfall." 

\--- 

Dufrense, the idiot, has given them enough weaponry to safely board the Man-of-War. A pistol each, and a sword for Flint. He assumes Silver cannot wield a sword. 

They leave shortly before dusk, creeping away from the makeshift Walrus camp and towards the forest, trying to get past the Spanish, to make it further up the coast. Flint thinks the best course of action is to stay in the woods, undercover until they're at least a day down the coast. Then, they can walk between the forest and the beach until they find their way to St. Augustine. 

The Tequesta, for all of Flint's posturing and threats, actually reside a bit further down the coast and are mostly peaceful gatherers. They shouldn't run into much trouble. This may _actually_ be a better plan than taking the warship. It'll take longer, but Dufrense and the rest of the Walrus will assume that he and Silver died, allowing them the element of surprise when they do make their way back to Nassau. 

"We should camp here," Flint says after they've walked in silence for a few hours. The sun is barely hanging over the horizon, and Flint doesn't want to spend his evening tripping over roots and Spanish moss. 

They find a small creek, some firewood, and thick trees to rest against. Spanish moss makes a comfortable pillow, Flint learns, if he pushes it together tightly enough. He closes his eyes, enjoying the flicker of flames warming his face when there's a rustle in the trees. 

He immediately sits up, but it's just Silver. "Sorry, I've got to take a piss." He says, wandering off. Flint rolls his eyes and settles back against the rough bark. 

There's a pause. More rustling. Then, Silver's panicked shout, echoing through the forest. 

_"Flint!"_

Flint is on his feet at once, his sword in hand. He rushes through the forest and finds Silver pinned to the ground by a Spaniard, looking half-crazed. Without thinking, Flint runs the blade through the man's heart, pulling it out again. The dead Spaniard goes limp, and Silver pushes him away with a disgusted look on his face. 

"Eugh," Silver says and brushes the dirt from his pants. "You've got blood on my shirt." 

Flint looks at him, his breathing a little heavier, his eyebrow raised. There's already blood on Silver's shirt-- they're both drenched in blood from the attack on the Walrus. 

"More blood, I mean." Silver clarifies. He gently toes at the dead man with his boot. "What do you suppose his deal is?" 

"Same as us," Flint says, gruffly, bending down to rifle through the man's pack. "Headed towards St. Augustine." 

"Shame." Silver says. 

Flint ignores him. In the Spaniard's pack, he finds a week's worth of rations, bullets, gunpowder, flint, and an orange. He sighs, standing, attempting to shoulder the pack. Immediately, he's thwarted, and the pack, heavy, almost _impossibly_ heavy, pulls him back to the ground. 

Flint and Silver look at the pack, then at each other. Wordlessly, Silver hands Flint the knife from the Spaniard's holster. 

Flint slices through the canvas, easier than slicing through any man, through a false bottom, revealing a pocket carrying at least three hundred gold coins, probably weighing nearly five pounds. 

"Jesus Christ," Silver says. Flint turns to him and grins, a wolfish, predatory smile. 

\--- 

In the pale morning hour, Flint repairs the false bottom of the bag while Silver counts the gold. "Three hundred and thirty-six doubloons." Silver says, accompanying the statement with a low whistle ."We should just retire now. This is more gold than those fuckers on the Walrus will ever have." 

"Why settle for three hundred doubloons," Flint says, grunting as he cuts the twine with his teeth, pulling the knot tight, "when you can have 5 million?" 

Silver blinks. "Don't you ever get tired of hunting?" 

"No," Flint says, shortly, before standing and holding open the pocket. "Now, let's get moving. I don't want to come across anymore thrifty Spaniards." 

\--- 

They walk north for five days straight. Flint doesn't speak much because he's exhausted and annoyed by Silver. Silver doesn't talk much because they have run out of fresh water. 

The heat is unbearable, and the sun seems impossibly strong, despite them being further from the equator than Nassau. They have begun to keep close to the coast, now that the forest has turned into Mangroves. There is water _everywhere_ , but it is all salt. They can't drink from it. Flint can't wash his wound in it. All they can do is piss in it and walk through it, the water slowing them down and exhausting them further. 

It's early on the sixth day of their journey when Flint decides they need to change course. 

"We have to go inland," He rasps, eyeing the coastline, then the horizon. 

"We tried going inland two days ago," Silver responds, his voice equally raspy pausing to rest against the smooth trunk of a mangrove. His foot kicks against a root. "There were alligators." 

"I'll take my chances with an alligator rather than die of thirst." 

"Well, _I_ won't. They're fucking scary." 

Flint looks at him. He's looked at Silver a lot these past few days. He hasn't gotten any less annoying, which is frustrating. "It'll also allow us the opportunity to come into St. Augustine from the rear. If we approach from the coast, it'll look suspicious." 

Silver sighs and they go inland. 

By the time daybreak falls, they still haven't found water. 

Flint can feel his wound growing infected from the lack of freshwater. The last time he cleaned it was five days ago, by the creek at their first camp. Since then, Flint has sweat and bled sluggishly for five days. If Flint dies of infection, after surviving _everything_ he's endured, walking with Silver, the most annoying man alive, then he will personally ask Satan himself to send him to the ninth circle. At least it would be colder than Florida. 

The forest returns and grows dense and they have still yet to find water. 

"I don't want to die," Silver rasps, finally. "Not when I finally have money." 

Fuck infection, Flint is going to kill himself if he has to spend another moment with Sliver. 

"Wait, Captain--" 

"What!" Flint, turns, roaring. "Enough! Enough of your whining! Jesus Christ, there's no water-- so stop fucking complaining about it! You're not the one with the fucking _hole in his shoulder_. Just--" He draws his gun, the thirst and anger getting the best of him. "Shut the _fuck up_ \--" He clicks the safety off, and then sees what Silver sees. 

In the last of the daylight, there's a freshwater spring about five hundred feet away. Flint drops the gun, and it lands softly in the pine needles that litter the forest floor and simultaneously, Flint and Silver lunge towards the spring. 

They fall to their knees in the mud, cupping their hands and lifting water to their mouths like two men on the verge of death. And, well. _They are._

Flint thinks it's the best water he's ever tasted. 

\--- 

Once they've had their fill, Flint and Silver set up camp. Well, Silver sets up camp. Flint cleans his wound. 

Flint thinks Silver is still shaken from almost being shot earlier. Good. 

Silver is struggling to start a fire. Flint sighs and stands, walking over to where Silver kneels. He takes the flint from the man's hands, strikes it once, and lights the wood. He looks at Silver. 

"I had that," Silver says, pouting. Jesus, what _grown man_ pouts? 

"Sure you did," Flint stands and stretches. He looks at the bandage on his shoulder. It hasn't started bleeding again, which is a good sign. "We should hunt." 

"For what, alligator?" 

Flint looks at him and rolls his eyes. "Or, you know. Rabbit." 

"I'm not hungry," Silver says, and rests against a tree, his eyes closing. "That water has satiated me of all my thirsts. I'll never need to drink another drop in my life. Fuck wine. Fuck rum. I just want," Silver jabs a finger in the direction of the bubbling spring. "that water." 

Flint rolls his eyes, but he secretly agrees with Silver. He really _hasn't_ tasted better water. 

"Hey," He says, his eyes crinkling. "You think we've found the Fountain of Youth?" 

Silver snorts. "I hope not. You'd be terrible at being immortal." 

\--- 

_2018_

Flint sighs and turns off the television. He just doesn't _understand_ films these days. Fish-- men? _Why?_

He stands to cross the apartment and pour himself a stiff drink. On nights like these, Flint likes to order Mexican from Uber eats, read a little, and fall asleep. 

It's easy, and when his thoughts get too much, it's what he needs. 

The apartment is sparsely decorated and massive. The walls are covered in books, a library that extends three rooms. Flint walks towards his bedroom, where his personal favorites reside. Maybe a little _Meditations_ will help temper his thoughts. 

There's a knock at his door, and he sighs. It's like they're in sync-- when he gets like this, _he_ always manages to show up. 

He opens the front door, and standing before him, is Silver, looking the same way he has for the past three hundred and three years. 

"Hello, John." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame Gemma ([vowelinthug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vowelinthug/pseuds/vowelinthug)) and [St. Augustine is That Way](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7890004) with this line of dialogue:
> 
> _"You still look the same," said Silver, leaning against a wooden pillar. "Fuck, no. You look younger. Like you did when we first met. How is that possible?"_
> 
>  
> 
> _"I found the Fountain of Youth," said Flint._
> 
>  
> 
> This is my first fic in Black Sails, so please be gentle, and also follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re literally living on a street called _Ponce de Leon._ It’s like you were begging for me to find you.”

_2018_

“So,” Flint says after he’s shut the door, and Silver is inside the apartment. He is doing what he always does after a few decades away from each other: he is looking at Flint’s bookshelves. “Where have you been for the last twenty years?” 

“New Zealand, Australia,” Silver says, bending down to peer at a title. “I knew you’d like Díaz. What did you think of his collection of short stories?” 

“It hit a little close to home for my liking,” Flint replies, his mustache twitching as his lip curls downwards. “John.”

Silver stands, his back straightening. “It was so easy to find you this time.” 

Flint doesn’t reply. He continues towards his bar cart, pouring himself a glass of some very expensive and very old rum. Nights like these are all about familiarity— now if only he could find some terrible, three-hundred-year-old rum that gave him the shits. That would _really_ make him feel at home. 

“You’re literally living on a street called _Ponce de Leon._ It’s like you were begging for me to find you.” 

Flint snorts. He doesn’t beg. 

Anymore. 

—

They enter St. Augustine from the rear late in the afternoon of the next day. Forest gives way to fields, then farmed fields, then sparse houses. Finally, the paths grow broader into roads, and they come across the fortifications surrounding the town. In the distance, Castillo de San Marcos looms. Flint was correct to enter St. Augustine from inland. 

“What will you call yourself?” Silver asks, as townspeople, going about their daily business, begin to near. 

“Díaz,” He says gruffly. 

Silver nods and takes a sharp turn directly into a guard’s post. _Jesus._

“ _Señors_ ,” Silver says, in the most dramatic, heartbroken Spanish. “We’ve just come from the roads— my boss and I— some highwaymen robbed us. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, could you please—” 

There’s something in the way that Silver speaks, the way he sounds so _desperate_ , like he’s halfway to death even though he’s perfectly fine, that makes the guards spring into action. They take Díaz and da Silva’s names, where they came from (Alachua, where Diaz owns a small ranch), where they were headed (St. Augustine to sell some leather), and how they were 1. Shot, 2. Robbed, and 3. Left for dead by some terrible English highwaymen in the forests outside St. Augustine. 

Flint isn't a believer, but God bless the Catholics. 

They send Silver and Flint towards the local inn for food and rest, provide them with clean clothes, and a few pieces of eight for the night. 

At the inn, Flint takes a much-needed bath, before heading down to the bar for dinner. Silver, of course, is charming the barmaid, her cheeks flushed as she serves him a bowl of something. 

“Hola, Señor Díaz, meet Maria. She says we can get safe passage to Port Royal from Savannah. No ships from St. Augustine will sail to anywhere English-controlled.” He pauses and flashes a grin at the barmaid. “And rightly so.”

“The English are bastards,” Flint says, shooting a look at Silver, before taking the stool next to him at the bar. “Where could we acquire some horses and provisions for the journey?” 

Maria places a glass of watered-down rum in front of Flint before answering. _God,_ he really does love Catholic generosity. “We have a well-stocked Cantina; you should be able to find everything you need there. As for horses, Señor Quijana keeps a few workhorses. He might be willing to part with one.” 

Flint doesn’t stay in the bar much longer after dinner. He doesn’t have the stomach to watch a young woman making eyes at Silver all night, and he doesn’t really want to see Silver make eyes back. 

In his room, there is a dirty mirror and a small bed. He removes the clean shirt and examines his wound. The fresh water from yesterday’s spring has worked a miracle. It’s not healed, but the infection seems to be receding. It’s a relief. 

Flint shucks his boots and breeches, throwing the shirt over the mirror. He collapses into the bed, the heating sticky and oppressive, so much so the thought of covering himself with bedsheets is unbearable. 

Within minutes, he is asleep. 

— 

_2018_

Silver is typing on his phone. 

“Are you still doing that— that thing?” Flint says, wincing at how harsh his words sound. The last time Flint saw Silver, they were in San Francisco, where Silver spent his days caring for men with AIDS, terminally ill and often on death’s doorstep. 

_“I won’t defend my actions to you,”_ He said, once. _“Everyone deserves love in the hour of death.”_

“Being human?” Silver asks sarcastically, his eyebrows raising as he doesn’t look at Flint. “No, I’m ordering Mexican food.” 

Flint nods. The air is heavy between them, the way it always is after they fall apart for a few years. This is how it is since Flint left for Europe for the war. Before that, he and Silver mostly stuck together: two men alone in their predicament. 

“It’s odd that you’re back in Georgia.” Silver says finally. 

Flint doesn’t respond. Instead, he drains his glass and goes to refill it. 

“Then again, I suppose Atlanta is not Savannah.” 

—

He rises at first light, dresses efficiently, and goes to wake Silver. To his surprise, the other man is already awake. 

“Good morning, Señor,” Silver says, looking far too awake for the hour. “Shall we head out?” 

He rolls his eyes, but they depart for the Cantina. There, they stock up on water and fruit. Flint reaches for some salted pork, but Silver shakes his head. 

“Allergic to pork, I’m afraid.” He merely says, even though it makes no sense. Flint rolls his eyes and grabs the beef instead. Silver could just _say_ he doesn’t like pork. 

They pay for the rations with a gold doubloon. The clerk stares at it, mouth falling open. Flint tries to leave the store in the least suspicious way possible. 

They walk an hour outside of St. Augustine, where, sure enough, a farmer named Quijana raises horses. They purchased two of the man’s older workhorses, still able to make the journey, but not worth as much as a steed. They even manage two saddles, the farmer claiming defects.

They head north once again. 

This time, it’s much easier. Silver and Flint are clean, they have sustenance, and the horses make the ride less unbearable and more efficient. 

The guards on the outskirts of St. Augustine warn them that they’ll pass through Indian territory, the Timucua, Yamasee, and Creek. Fortunately, the trail is well established, and shouldn’t be hard to follow. Flint is almost more worried about Silver’s fictional highwaymen than the Indians. 

It’s a four-day ride, three if they don’t stop to rest much. Between the sound of hooves on packed dirt and the scraggly pines providing shade, Flint feels much more inclined to carry a conversation with Silver. 

“When we arrive in Savannah,” Flint says, steering the horse away from nosing at some flowers. “The first thing we have to do is send word back to Nassau that I’m alive.” 

“Ah, yes,” Silver says, allowing his horse to eat the flowers happily. “For your witch.” 

Flint snorts. “Sure, my witch.” Miranda hates the characterization, but Flint can’t help but feel tickled by it. Her beauty is supernatural, as is her intelligence. He thinks she should take it as a compliment. 

“How did you meet your wife, anyway?” 

Flint blinks. He pulls the horse away from the creek where they’ve stopped for water and begins a steady trot. “She’s not my wife.” 

— 

_2018_

“The best thing about this nonsense is the food,” Silver practically moans as he lifts a fried chicken taco to his mouth. 

_This nonsense._ That’s what they always call it. Not _immortality_. Not _living forever_. Not _purgatory_. They just call it _this nonsense,_ as if eternal life was some sort of mild inconvenience, instead of Flint’s definition of hell. 

“You seem to say that every time you eat a taco,” Flint says, suppressing a small smile. 

“Well, they’re God’s gift to earth. I had the best tacos in the Philippines, mango and pico and fish and,” Silver shakes his head as if remembering the taco is too much to bear. 

They have rules, about keeping to themselves. It’s harder now, to stay out of the public’s knowledge, with the internet and all that. Records used to burn. Now, everything’s in the cloud. He doesn’t travel much anymore, not like Silver; it was easier when you didn’t need passports. Silver has always had connections and the ability to change his and Flint’s aliases at the drop of a hat. Flint thinks of it all to be so much work. 

“You should travel more.” Silver says. 

It’s a reoccurring argument that they have every ten years or so. Silver wants to walk every corner of the earth. He wants to be a nomad, roam freely and meet freely and love freely. It’s a beautiful notion, and Flint is glad he can do so, but Flint is tired. He’s been tired for the last two hundred and eighty-five years. 

“I traveled enough during the war.” 

“You saw battlefields in Vichy France. That’s not exactly traveling.” 

While Silver has a wish to continuously break his heart, Flint has a need— an _ache_ to fight. He’s fought against the English in the Indian-French war. He loaded muskets alongside Lafayette in Virginia. He’s sunk British Naval ships. With satisfaction, he burnt his way through the South. He’s battled the Spanish in Cuba on the side of the Americans, against Austria-Hungary with the British. He’s killed more Nazis than he can count. 

He tries to do what’s right. As the years pass by, that has become harder and harder to do. 

“Do you want a drink?” He says, eventually, changing the topic. “Something that isn’t hard cider?” 

“I like hard cider!” Silver says. He sounds offended. 

“I haven’t collected liquor for seventy years for you to drink craft cider in my home, Mr. Silver,” Flint drawls, and it feels like the good old days, bantering back and forth on horseback or in a barn or on a train. 

“So pour me a decent drink,” Silver says, standing from the table and stretching.

—

They’re an hour or so outside of Savannah, and Flint is crouching behind a bush, taking a shit. He’s barely finished when he hears a wicked metallic noise, and Silver’s ragged gasp, before a pained, guttural scream. 

He pulls up his breeches, not bothering to fasten them before he’s running through the woods. He’s panicked— there’s no sign of Silver by the horses. He returns to the woods, searching, before his foot snags on an iron chain. 

His eyes follow the obscured chain, to a bloody leg captured in an iron mantrap. The snare is biting into Silver’s leg viciously, blood pouring onto the leaves and dirt of the forest floor. 

“Jesus _Christ,_ Silver.” Flint says, falling to his knees and attempting to work Silver out of the trap. Silver cries out, his hands grasping at his leg, and Flint falls back on his knees, sighing. It’s going to do more harm than good to try and get Silver out of the trap on his own. They need to get to Savannah, find a doctor, and someone able to remove the snares. 

Thankfully, the chain is rusted and weak and easy to break. Flint raises Silver up, minding the mauled leg, and hauls him onto the horse. 

“Can you make it to Savannah without collapsing, Silver?” Flint says, wary of the man’s fluttering eyes. 

“Yes, yes—” He takes a shallow breath. “We must hurry, but yes.” 

Flint sets forth at a gallop, the two men sharing one horse, Silver heavy against his back. The other horse, mercifully, is well trained and follows closely behind. 

After a half hour of riding, they come across a plantation. They approach the iron gates, and a white guard opens them with ease. 

“Sir,” Flint says, in English. “My employee, his leg was ensnared in a trap. May we rest here while I fetch for a doctor?” 

“No need,” The guard says. “The doctor is here. Mr. Sanders!” He calls. A white man dressed in simple clothing comes forth, carrying a hoe. Flint looked at the man, his straw hat, and ruddy, work-worn skin, and feels confused. Is a white man laboring on the plantation? 

“Mr. Sanders will take you to the main house.” The guard says, and the man, Mr. Sanders, hands over the hoe and takes the lead of the horse. The guard at the gates waves over another worker and the other horse was taken away. 

“Your employee is lucky that Mr. Nunez is here today. A few men are struck by fever, and he came from Savannah earlier this morning.” Sanders says. A large, white house, appears at the end of the path, where two men are conversing. 

“Mr. Oglethorpe, Mr. Nunez, we have some visitors in need of help.” The man, Oglethorpe, look positively shocked to see Silver bleeding on the back of Flint’s horse. 

“Of course, of course! Mr. Nunez will see to it at once, Mr—” 

“Barlow,” Flint supplies. “James Barlow. This is John Silver.”

“What luck, Savannah’s doctor is on the plantation today.” Oglethorpe helps Silver off the horse, and Flint follows quickly behind. 

“Mr. Nunez will help Mr. Silver,” Oglethorpe says. “You look panicked. Why don’t you attend to my study, and I will have one of the men bring you some tea?” 

Flint is reluctant to leave Silver’s side, but then again, Silver is only his employee, according to the story they have constructed, that just seems most straightforward to stick with. 

Oglethorpe directs Flint inside to a book-covered office, a large, oak desk, and seemingly comfortable chairs. He sits gingerly at the edge of the chair. The adrenaline from Silver's injury and the ride is leaving him quickly, and Flint feels exhausted. He wishes he could fall asleep against the leather of the chair, but that would be improper, and he doesn’t want to do anything to offend the generosity of Mr. Oglethorpe. 

The door opens, and footsteps and the rattling of china fill the room. A tall man with sandy, straw-colored hair sets tea down on the desk. His eyes meet the man’s, and the teapot crashes to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. 

_"James—"_ The man says with the exhale of breath, and Flint his heart give one, sickening thud, as he looks into the eyes of Thomas Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samuel Nunez and James Oglethorpe also appear in [Unaccomodated Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097009/chapters/24758742) by Kvikindi. They did a wonderful job in that fic, and while my characterization will be my own, I wanted to give them credit where credit is due for the idea. 
> 
> Thank you for a great response so far, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! Follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I caught the game ball,” Silver says suddenly. “I gave it to little Jimmy Hawkins. Poor kid had polio.”_

Flint is confident he is looking at a ghost. This is a figment of his mind's eye. There is simply no logical reason why a dead man would be standing before him, cleaning up shards of porcelain teapot. 

“Mr. Hamilton, I heard a crash—” Oglethorpe appears at the door, and both Flint and Thomas look at the man, his face ruddy, and his beard white. Flint has never heard someone refer to Thomas— _Lord Thomas Hamilton_ — by something as lowly and common as _mister_. 

“Mr. Oglethorpe,” Thomas says, standing. “My apologies about the tea—” 

“No worries, you’ve just given me quite the fright. Too much excitement for a dull afternoon, yes?” Oglethorpe enters the room and walks towards his desk. Flint turns his gaze back to Thomas. No, it couldn’t be a ghost. Thomas never wore a beard, nor did his hair have grey in it. 

Thomas is alive. 

Flint lets out a sharp exhale— ready to speak or sob, he isn’t sure which— when there is a murderous scream from somewhere in the house. He stands, already half a step towards the door. 

“Mr. Barlow—” 

“Barlow?”

Flint turns around, looking between Thomas and Oglethorpe. Oglethorpe is looking at Thomas quizzically, while Thomas stares at Flint. His gaze has yet to leave Flint since the teapot fell to the floor a few minutes ago. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hamilton, do you know Mr. Barlow?” Oglethorpe says. 

“I— yes—” Thomas says. 

“I’m his wife’s brother.” Flint invents quickly. Barlow _is_ Miranda’s maiden name. It would explain Thomas’ reaction, somewhat. 

“We haven’t seen each other in—” Thomas shakes his head. Flint sees that his hand is shaking faintly. “Ten years, must be?” 

“Yes,” Flint says. “I left for the colonies ten years ago.” He tears his gaze away from Thomas. “I hadn’t heard you sailed for the New World as well—” 

There is another scream from the house. Flint remembers that somewhere in the large house, Silver is in terrible pain. He is suddenly overwhelmed by conflict. He feels the urge to check on Silver, make sure the other man is okay. But Thomas is _here_. And _alive_. 

Oglethorpe interrupts Flint’s panic. 

“Mr. Hamilton, I do believe you have to attend to your duties,” Oglethorpe says, forcefully but not unkindly. “Perhaps, later, Mr. Barlow will take visitors— of course, assuming—” 

“Yes, yes, of course, assuming that I finish my work.” Thomas straightens his plain white shirt and brown breeches. Flint has never seen him in something so plain. “Brother,” Thomas’ hand lands on his shoulder, a brief touch, fleeting and shaking. “I will see you later.” 

Thomas leaves. Flint lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. 

“Mr. Barlow—” 

“What is this?” Flint interrupts, quickly. “This place— you have— white laborers?” 

“Yes,” Oglethorpe looks taken aback by Flint’s abrupt nature. “Perhaps— perhaps I will explain this to you at dinner. Your companion, Mr. Silver, he’ll be in surgery—” 

“Surgery?” Flint says, looking towards the door. 

“Yes, I don’t believe he’ll make a very efficient employee anymore. Unfortunate, to see a young man in good health tarnished by invalidity.” 

—

 _2018_

Flint returns from the bathroom, and Silver is on his couch, flicking through channels. It’s so reminiscent of Flint’s position, not two hours prior that he can’t help but smile. 

“Do you remember Boston?” Silver asks. 

Flint rolls his eyes. Silver always knows where Flint is standing at any given moment in time. Flint, over three-hundred years, has yet to garner the same capability. 

“Which Boston?” He asks, rounding the couch and sitting in his favorite armchair.

“The last time. When we went to Fenway.” 

Flint and Silver have resided in Boston a few times. In the 1760s and 70s, for a few months in 1846, before Flint went to war, and from 1910 to 1912. 

He remembers the day so well. It was the first game ever played in Fenway. Smokey Joe Wood was pitching like he was the only man in the world to do so. The Yankee’s had their asses handed to them. The only thing anyone could talk about was that damn Titanic sinking. 

“You know I do,” Flint says, crossing his left leg over his right. “We were living in that little apartment in Back Bay.” 

“I was your nephew.” Silver says, looking over at Flint, a smirk on his face. “I can’t believe anyone believed that.” 

“You were a barefaced little shit. You still are a barefaced little shit. Anyone one would believe it.” Flint says, returning Silver’s smile. 

“And you were a surly old man. You know— never mind. It was completely plausible.” Silver turns his attention back to the tv. The Red Sox are playing the Giants. No wonder Silver is thinking about Boston. 

“I caught the game ball,” Silver says suddenly. “I gave it to little Jimmy Hawkins. Poor kid had polio.” 

Flint doesn’t speak. He remembers Jim Hawkins. Flint remembers Silver’s affinity for children with polio. He would spend every afternoon in polio wards, playing with children, reading to them. He’s always been this way. His generosity, whether with crippled children of the early 20th century, to diseased men of the late, seems neverending. 

He wonders if Silver still makes anonymous donations. He probably does. “You know, I heard there were only something like one hundred cases last year in the world.” 

“I know,” Silver says. “Fucking amazing.” 

“Fucking amazing,” Flint echos.

—

Dinner is an awkward affair. Thomas isn’t there, and neither is Silver. It is just Oglethorpe, Nunez, and Flint, masquerading as a man with far more patience than he. 

Oglethorpe, between bites and grand gestures of his fork, is describing his plantation, a place for men unwanted by society. How they can find good, honest work, away from sin. A place to reform, apart from the watchful eye of England and their families. 

Flint wishes so badly to stab the man. 

Oglethorpe isn’t saying it, but this is a prison. Thomas is imprisoned here. Thomas, an innocent man, a man who has done nothing wrong. He wonders who put him in this prison. Alfred Hamilton? A man who died by Flint’s sword? Surely, now, Thomas could be set free. 

Before he can ask, or stab, Nunez speaks. 

“About your employee,” The man says, a heavy accent thickening his words. He must be Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese. “He took the amputation quite well.” 

Flint nearly chokes on his wine. “ _Amputation?_ ”

Nunez regards him curiously. “Well, yes.” He looks between Oglethorpe and Flint. “Surely, you didn’t expect him to keep his leg? Between the injuries caused by the trap and the nature of the iron—” 

“No, yes, of course,” Flint shakes his head. “I was just— I’ll have to find new uses for him, I suppose. When will he be able to move?” 

Nunez seems to consider this. “Perhaps by the week’s end. However, I would like to invite him to celebrate the _Sábado_ with me.” 

Flint’s brow furrows. “Silver isn’t a Jew.” 

Nunez chuckles. “Perhaps not to you, just as I am not a Jew to Portugal. But he prayed the _Shema_. That man is a Jew.” 

—

After dinner, Flint asks Oglethorpe to see Thomas. Flint is put into a parlor and waits patiently. Eventually, Thomas arrives, looking exhausted. 

Flint stands at once, crosses the room in two long strides, and embraces the man. _He is real._

“I don’t understand,” Thomas says. “Peter told me you were dead.” 

He looks at Thomas, looks at the lines on his face, the darkened hollows of his eyes. “He told me you were dead as well.” 

“Miranda—” 

“She is alive, Thomas,” He doesn’t know why he is whispering, but the words seem to precious to say aloud. “She is alive, in Nassau. We can be together—” 

“Nassau,” Thomas snorts. “Have you pacified it then?” 

Flint shakes his head. “Thomas, I will tell you all of this later. We need to get you out of here—”

“Ah,” Thomas says, gently, as if he was correcting Flint’s opinion of Voltaire over the dinner table all those years ago. “James, I am afraid it is impossible. My father paid a great sum—” 

“Your father,” Flint growls. “I murdered that bastard, Thomas. Whatever he did— whatever he has done, it will die with him.” 

Thomas blinks and takes a step back. “You killed my father?” 

Flint sighs. “I waged war against England in your name. I— when Miranda and I arrived in Nassau, I took the name Flint.” 

Thomas’ eyes widen. “Captain Flint? The pirate?” 

“Yes—” 

“Peter told me Captain Flint murdered my father. He told me Captain Flint murdered my wife. He told me Captain Flint murdered _you_.” 

Flint doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he speaks, avoiding Thomas’ eye. “Perhaps, in a way, that is true. But I am alive. _We_ are alive. And I don’t care what sum of money brought you into this place. I will bring you out, so help me, or I will burn this place to the ground.” 

“James—” 

Nunez appears at the door. “Mr. Barlow, Mr. Hamilton— pardon the interruption. Mr. Silver is awake.” 

\---

_2018_

Flint pulls on a pair of soft flannel pants and climbs into bed. He is far too old to stay up late. Furthermore, Flint finds no purpose in it. He has an innumerable amount of days ahead of him. There is no purpose in extending the hours in those days. 

At the side of the plush, king-sized bed, Silver is removing his prosthetic leg. Flint is shocked by how far prosthetics have come. Silver used to walk on a wooden leg, or nothing at all, then a metal leg, then a plastic prosthesis. Now, he doesn’t know what Silver’s new one is made of, but it’s nearly weightless, and with it, Silver can move with ease. 

Flint reaches for a book on a shelf, then falters. He never knows how nights like this, when he and Silver reunite, will go. Sometimes they fight. Sometimes they fuck. Sometimes they barely speak. 

Flint leaves the book on the shelf and goes to his side of the bed. No matter the year, the location, the bed, Flint always sleeps on the left. The right side is Silvers. It always has been. It always will be.

He rests his head against the leather headboard and exhales when Silver lays his head on Flint’s bare chest. 

“I got married,” Silver says. 

Flint looks down at Silver. His hands reach for the ring resting on a chain in the vee of Silver’s throat. His fingers touch the smooth, golden metal. The _again_ goes unspoken. Flint knows that somewhere, hidden away, Silver has at least a dozen wedding bands like the one that hangs around his neck now. He waits for Silver to speak. 

“Her name was Alice.” 

“What happened?” Flint asks, softly, gently.

“She had cancer. I loved her. I really did, James.” 

“I know,” He says, wrapping his arms tighter around Silver. He _hates_ this. He _hates_ that Silver does this to himself. He falls in love with the terminally ill, the dying, the people who need it the most, and they die, and Silver dies a little with them. The man’s heart truly knows no bounds for love.

Flint has only ever loved three people. He lost two, and that was enough for him. 

—

It has been a week, and they are still on the plantation. 

Much to Flint’s anger, Thomas continues to work throughout the days. He labors in the fields, or in the kitchens. The heat from the sun outside radiates through the house, and Flint can _see_ Thomas in the fields, sweating, aching. His desire to burn Oglethorpe’s plantation has not diminished in the slightest. 

Silver is healing, rapidly. Nunez says he has never seen a man recover so well from the loss of a limb. Flint, when not forced into conversation with Oglethorpe, or stealing moments with Thomas in the kitchens before supper, sits by Silver’s bedside. 

Silver is reading from Nunez’s bible. 

“I have not known you to be a religious man,” Flint says, finally. 

“I am not.” 

Flint fiddles with the ring on his finger. “Nunez wants you to celebrate the Sabbath with him.” 

“He does.” 

“Why didn’t you say—” 

“Say that I was a Jew?” Silver looks at him, eyes suddenly fierce. “And what, be kicked off the ship? Accused of stealing from our prizes? Asked by the men to see my horns and hoofs? Besides,” Silver turns away from Flint, so he can’t see his eyes. “I grew up in a Christian orphanage. I had my sins beat out of me.” 

Flint shakes his head. “There’s— in Kingston, there’s a whole colony of pirate Jews. Good men. I had a man on the crew once, his father sailed with Henriques and Morgan.” 

“Nunez tells me there are families here, they celebrate openly. A whole _kal_.” 

Flint’s stomach turns over. “We should stay here.” 

Silver looks at him, hesitant, curious. “What do you mean?” 

“Thomas is here.” 

“Who is Thomas?” 

“My—” He takes a deep breath. “My lover. From— from before. From England. Miranda’s husband. He is the reason we came to Nassau. He is the reason I became I pirate. I thought he was dead, but—” 

“He is alive?” Silver says. “And here?” 

“Maybe we can stay here. Miranda can join Thomas and me, and you can rejoin your— your people.” 

“What about the gold?” Silver asks. “The gold, waiting for us on that Spanish beach? What about Dufresne and—” 

“I don’t care,” Flint says, and it’s true. “I did all of this— everything, the murder, the anger because Thomas was taken from me. And if—” He corrects himself. “When I remove him from this place, we can start a life together again.” 

He turns his head, looks out the window, and gives one shrug of acquiescing. “Fine by me.” Then, Silver is quiet.

—

_2018_

Silver is quiet. 

Flint looks away from his phone, where he is reading the Washington Post. Silver seems asleep, at last. 

Careful to not jostle or wake Silver, he plugs his phone in and turns off the lamp on his bedside table.

—

“Mr. Oglethorpe, I need to speak with you—” Flint says, appearing at the man’s office door. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barlow, I have a guest arriving shortly, can it wait?” Oglethorpe says, standing. 

“It’s about Mr. Hamilton—” 

“Well, perhaps you can speak to my guest— perhaps you know him? He is Mr. Hamilton’s friend, he visits often. I believe he is the patron of Mr. Hamilton’s residence here.” Oglethorpe crosses to his window, gesturing for Flint to follow. He walks to Oglethorpe and looks out the window. A carriage is parked by the porch, and a young woman with brown hair exits, then Peter Ashe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There [really was a colony of Jewish Pirates in Jamaica.](https://www.smithsonianmag.com/travel/forgotten-jewish-pirates-jamaica-180959252/) And they were badass. 
> 
> Shema Yisrael are the first two words of a section of the Torah, and is the title of a prayer that serves as a centerpiece of the morning and evening Jewish prayer services. It's also supposed to be said in the moment before one's death. 
> 
> Translations are by google translate and searching, so they may be wrong. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong!
> 
> Sábado is Sabbath in Portuguese. 
> 
> Kal means Synagogue or Community in Ladino.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Lieutenant?” Oglethorpe says with surprise. “Mr. Barlow— _Lieutenant Barlow,_ my apologies, I didn’t know you were a naval officer—”_

_2018_

Flint wakes to Silver's lips wrapped around his cock. 

"Jesus _Christ,_ John," He groans, throwing one arm over his forehead. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow the sun to invade the cavernous room, and the morning light reflects off Silver's smooth, tanned skin, making the man look like Apollo, luxurious and lazy, glowing brighter than a thousand infernos. 

Silver's mouth leaves his cock with an audible _pop_. "I know that look. You're being insufferable and poetic, aren't you?" 

Flint rolls his eyes and laces his hands through Silver's long, raven-black curls, and _pulls._ Silver gives Flint a wicked look, and his eyes crinkle, ever so slightly, when Flint groans as Silver takes him back into his mouth. 

—

Dinner is an awkward affair, again, but this time, it is because Thomas, Silver, and Peter and Abigail Ashe join him and Oglethorpe at the dinner table. Flint is trying, so desperately, to be patient, when he wishes the cutlery in his hand was his cutlass instead, and he could run the gleaming metal straight through Peter Ashe’s rotten fucking gut. 

“I had to bring Abigail here at once, Mr. Oglethorpe, surely you understand—” Peter Ashe is finishing a story that Flint is thoroughly ignoring. 

“Of course!” Oglethorpe says. “I cannot imagine, your daughter taken for ransom by _pirates_. Tell me, this Vane, did you manage to capture him?” 

A dark look crosses Peter’s face. “No,” He says, shortly, and Flint can’t help but smile to himself.

“However,” Peter continues, and Flint’s eyes land on his. “I have to admit, I am surprised to find you here, Lieutenant.” 

“Lieutenant?” Oglethorpe says with surprise. “Mr. Barlow— _Lieutenant Barlow,_ my apologies, I didn’t know you were a naval officer—” 

“My brother left the Navy shortly before he came to the colonies,” Thomas speaks for the first time that evening. 

“Brother?” Confusion is apparent on Peter’s face. “My apologies, what is going on here?” 

Oglethorpe is quiet. Thomas is quiet. Silver is quiet. Little Abigail Ashe has yet to stop trembling since she sat down for dinner. 

So Flint speaks. 

“Mr. Oglethorpe, my apologies for interrupting dinner, but I feel if I do not speak, we will all be crushed under the weight of unsaid words,” He says, his eyes not leaving Peter Ashe. “Once Mr. Silver heals, I intend to take Mr. Hamilton from this place.” 

Oglethorpe begins to speak but is interrupted by Peter. “Excuse me?” 

“Yes, Mr. Ashe, now that Lord Hamilton is dead, I see no reason why Mr. Hamilton should remain here.” Flint says, his fist clenching his fork tightly. 

“He is here because he committed a crime,” Peter says. “I was instructed by his father to keep him here.” 

“He committed no crime,” Flint says through gritted teeth. “He is wrongfully imprisoned.” 

“He is a criminal—” 

“Excuse me,” Thomas says, softly, and all eyes turn to him. “If I may speak?” 

No one moves, or disagrees, so Thomas seems to take that as an allowance to continue. 

“I have heard many men speak about me, yet I have not allowed to speak for myself. My father paid a great sum for Mr. Oglethorpe to keep me here. Peter, you came to me once, years ago, begging for my penance. Begging for my forgiveness of your betrayal. I gave it to you because you told me that my wife was dead. That my— that the Lieutenant was dead. Killed by pirates. That does not seem to be the case. You betrayed me, told lies to my father, to a judge, in order to receive the Governance of the Carolina colony. I see no reason why I should not have you killed.” Thomas finishes, reaching for his glass. 

Oglethorpe looks aghast. Silver looks at his plate. Abigail Ashe is still trembling.

“Perhaps—” Flint begins before Silver clears his throat. 

“Miss Ashe,” Silver says, a charming grin on his face. “Perhaps you will help me to the parlor? This conversation need not include us—” 

“You lay one hand on her, you fucking Jew--” Peter stands, and Flint stands too, but he cannot hear what Peter says next over the blood pounding in his ears and the shocked look on Silver’s face. 

Flint is surprised by the rage he feels. “I will _kill_ you bastard—” 

“Gentleman!” Oglethorpe says, and he notices that Abigail Ashe is crying now. “Please, let Miss Ashe exit, and we will discuss this, _civilly._ ”

—

 _2018_

“Your hair is so short,” Silver says, leaning against the kitchen counter as Flint shuffles around, looking for his keys. “It was longer in San Francisco.” He is freshly showered and shaven and wearing Flint’s cologne. It causes a low, warm heat in Flint’s stomach, appealing and dangerous at the same time. 

“That was twenty years ago, Silver,” He says, dryly. “It’s odd, for a man my age to wear his hair that long.” 

“I know, I know, we mustn’t attract attention to ourselves.” Silver says, a grim look on his face. It’s a discussion they’ve had time and time again. “What are we doing for breakfast?” 

“There are some great biscuits nearby,” Flint says, finding his keys underneath a stray book. “We can walk, it’s not too far.” 

“Alright,” Silver says, and opens the door for Flint. It’s only five minutes from the elevator to the ground floor of the high rise apartment building, and Flint and Silver step onto the sunny, bustling Atlanta street. 

“Jesus, I forgot how hot it was in Georgia. At least we were on the coast last time.” Silver says and takes Flint’s hand. Flint doesn’t object, and the surprise is evident on Silver’s face. “What, you aren’t going to say no?” 

Flint shrugs. “It’s been twenty years, and we’re in Midtown Atlanta. It’s not strange anymore.” 

“Odd, how times have changed. Where was it, that we got caught fucking and almost got a mob sent after us?” 

Flint’s lip twitched with the barest hint of a smile. “Mississippi Territory. 1813.” 

“Ah, yes. That was it.” 

They walk, hand-in-hand, quietly for a few moments, until Flint stops Silver at his favorite brunch spot. They step inside and are seated instantly. Flint’s a regular here since he doesn’t work. Sometimes, he brings his laptop and writes. He writes and writes and writes— histories and fictions and poems. Maybe, one day, he will publish something. Until then, the idea of maintaining different identities and dealing with employers makes his head hurt. Perhaps he’ll just leave his work to be discovered until the day he eventually dies. 

“Don’t look so maudlin. There are mimosas here,” Silver says, pursuing the menu with evident glee. “What are you going to order?” 

“Did you land and come directly to my apartment?” Flint asks instead of responding to Silver’s question. “Or— or have you been back for a while?” The idea sticks sullenly in his head. He has no claims or possession of Silver. They often go decades without speaking to each other. But usually, that is because Silver is abroad, and Flint is an idiot. He doesn’t like the thought of Silver being stateside and purposefully staying away from him. 

“Relax,” Silver says, as if he knows what Flint is silently panicking about. Which he likely does. They have been together for three hundred years. Silver always knows. “I landed yesterday around five.” 

—

In the end, after hours of arguing, it is agreed. Flint will give half of his gold doubloons to Oglethorpe, half to Peter Ashe, take Thomas from this place, and kindly not burn it to the ground. 

In return, Peter Ashe will never contact Flint or Thomas again, and if he does, Flint will murder him. He doesn’t say that, of course, but Flint knows that the impression is conveyed through his nearly-monosyllabic negotiations. 

He is blessed that Oglethorpe seems mostly on his side, and also seems to just want to be rid of Flint and Silver, the two guests that brought so much unwanted grief to the plantation. 

They leave the next morning, Flint and Thomas and Silver, still unable to move on anything but a crutch, and head toward the coast.

They book three rooms at an inn in Savannah, with the little money that Flint managed to spare from his deal with Oglethorpe and Ashe, and Flint finally sends a letter to Miranda in Nassau that Flint is alive, Thomas is alive, and they can finally live together in peace. 

The very next day, Flint and Thomas look for a plot of land. It is the Sabbath, and Silver reluctantly left Flint to spend it with Dr. Nunez and a small congregation of Jews. 

For a fair price, they can build a small farm on the Skedway Narrows. It is secluded enough from Savannah that they can live in peace, but the town is still easily accessible by boat. There is a plantation nearby, Wormslow, and they can surely fish and farm on the surrounding rivers. 

Flint thinks it is heaven, unfolding before him in a way never imagined. 

—

_2018_

They walk around Piedmont park until Silver’s leg begins to hurt, so they take a break in the grass near the pond. Silver stretches out, lithe and lazy, his hands resting on his stomach and his eyes closing briefly. 

Flint has a sudden urge to write. To write down everything he and Silver have been through, the storied past they have endured, and the years they have yet to come. 

“Please don’t leave me again,” Flint says, quietly, desperately, embarrassingly. 

One of Silver’s eyes opens, and he looks suspiciously cat-like. “You always say that when I come back. Just wait, in a decade or so you’ll be calling me a little shit and threatening me with that cutlass I know you still have.” 

Silver’s right. Flint _knows_ he is. Soon enough, if one can call decades _soon_ , they will begin to argue. They will bicker. They will fight. Past torments will be rehashed. Silver will accuse Flint of not loving him, Flint will accuse Silver of ruining his life. 

Eventually, Silver will leave. To God knows where; Kenya, Tibet, Norway, Chile. Some far-flung corner of the earth where Flint is too tired to find him. 

Flint will wait. He always waits. Maybe, one day, Silver will not return. 

He doesn’t want to think about it. For now, he lays back in the grass, his fingers lacing with Silver’s, as he closes his eyes and lets the midday sun warm his skin. 

—

A man named Jones, who owns the plantation, sells Flint and Thomas a few acres of land for cheap. Silver has taken residence with the Nunez family until his leg heals further, and Thomas and Flint can raise the frame for a house. 

The house is simple, built out of tabby and sturdy pine. They work through the day, eager to finish building, and by the time they receive word that Miranda has packed their belongings and is on her way to Savannah, they have a threadbare house. No furnishings, no glass for the windows, but walls, a roof, and floors. 

Flint begins to make furniture out of any wood he can find, eager for Miranda to return to a home, not a house. He manages a large, if lopsided bed first, then a table and few chairs. Jones, the man in the plantation across the river, loans Flint tools in return for Thomas’ help with their books. 

The people of Savannah are kind, whenever he has to go into town. They take an interest in Flint’s furniture, intrigued by the way he uses driftwood to create smooth tables and chairs. The wood is useless; it is not sturdy nor flammable, but it is durable and abundant. The furniture it produces are oddly shaped pieces, but he supposes, therein lies the charm. 

He never imagined, standing on that beach in Florida, that he craft furniture out of sea-worn wood for English colonists of the New World. But with Thomas by his side, he cannot imagine anything else. 

—-

_2018_

“It’s odd that you’re in Georgia again,” Silver says, sitting across from Flint at the small cafe that reminds him of the coffeehouses he used to visit with Thomas in London. 

“So you’ve said,” Flint says, reaching for his cappuccino and placing a sugar cube in the milky foam. 

“Have you gone back? To Savannah? To the cottage?” 

“No,” Flint says, shortly. He doesn’t want to say that he would never return to that place without Silver at his side. 

—

Miranda arrives on a Friday. 

The weather is fair at the port, and the sailors help her off. It seems that she has been able to carry quite a bit with her from Nassau; she has brought chestfuls of books and clothes and the portrait of her and Thomas that Flint could never bear to look at. 

She crashes into his arms, pressing a desperate kiss on his cheek. “You _arse,_ ” She says, her hands shaking faintly as she clutches to his white shirt. “I thought you were dead— those _awful_ pirates returned, and they said you were dead.”

“Miranda,” He says, too overwhelmed to truly say anything romantic or noteworthy. “Thomas—” 

She pulls away from him at once, tears in her eyes. They search until they land on Thomas, standing perhaps a bit awkwardly to the side. _”Thomas,_ ” She cries, and rips herself away from Flint, sobbing as Thomas takes her into his arms, pressing kisses on her chocolate-brown hair. 

“I’m here, my darling,” Flint can hear Thomas say faintly, his voice muffled by Miranda’s cries and the way he buries his face in the crook of her neck. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm rushing through and doing a lot of ~fanfiction handwaving~ at the Peter Ashe storyline, but this isn't a story about Peter or the plantation or Oglethorpe! They were necessary devils! The good stuff is coming!
> 
> This chapter is also a little shorter, but we're getting to the good stuff, I promise. Next chapter, this fic will earn it's E rating. 
> 
> Thank y'all so much for all the amazing comments. They make my heart soar. 
> 
> Don't forget to share this fic with your friends and follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“No, no, I prefer John. Hebrew wouldn’t sound right on your tongue, anyways.” Silver says, and there’s his smile, the one that is so dangerous to Flint. “Are you going to introduce me to your witch?”_

They have borrowed a cart from the plantation, bare-bones, rickety, and led by one of the horses Flint purchased from the farmer outside of St. Augustine. He and Thomas load Miranda’s belongings into the back of the cart. Once it is full, and creaking threateningly, he helps Miranda up, where she seats herself on the front bench. Thomas sits to the left of her, and Flint takes the reigns on the right. 

“We’re invited to dinner,” Thomas says, taking Miranda’s hand in his, running his scarred hands over hers, still relatively smooth. 

“Oh?” Miranda says, her voice warm and lovely, even if it still sounds thick with emotion.

“Yes. James says our kitchen table won’t be done until tomorrow.” 

Flint grunts. “It has to—” 

“Yes, darling, I know, it has to set. You’ve said.” Thomas says that smirk that he remembers all so well lighting his face. Flint can’t believe it’s been less than a fortnight since they were reunited. Less than a fortnight since Flint thought Thomas was _dead_. 

“In Nassau,” Miranda says, conspiratorially, leaning towards her husband, as if she and Thomas have been apart for minutes and not a decade, “I asked James to build me a table, and it took him _two weeks_. I had to eat dinner on a bench.” 

Thomas chuckles, though Flint can tell it doesn’t quite have the warmth that Flint is accustomed to hearing. Instead of worrying, Flint cracks the reigns, and the horse starts off, away from the port and inland towards Savannah proper. 

—

They arrive at the Nunez home, and Flint ties up the horse. He isn’t sure about leaving the entirety of Miranda’s possessions out the back of the house, but Thomas assures him that his fears are unfounded. _These are good people,_ Thomas reminds him, patting his back comfortingly, _and the only people to offer us their charity. Besides, the cart is hidden from the road._

Thomas is right, but, then again, Thomas is always right. The three of them walk to the front door, and Flint knocks, when Thomas murmurs, looking at something on the doorframe.

“Oh, how lovely. Look at how this is painted, Miranda. And the metal-working! It must be their scripture. How wonderful. I wonder what its purpose is?” 

Miranda says something in kind, but Flint can’t hear what it is she’s saying, as the door opens and a young boy with tan skin and an intricate cap on his head. “Papa!” He calls and then says something in an odd language-- not quite Portuguese, or Spanish. 

Nunez appears at the door, wearing a similar cap as the boy. “Thank you, Moses. My friends!” He says, opening the door widely. “Please, come in! We were just getting ready to light the candles.” 

“I hope we’re not late,” Thomas says, genially, as the trio enters into the foyer of the house.

“Of course not. The sun is only beginning to set.” Nunez ushers them into a sitting room, where, to Flint’s surprise, Silver is on the floor, playing with two young girls and their dolls. 

“Rachel, Zipra,” Silver says, in an amusing tone, moving the doll in his hands around as if it is a puppet. “The pirates are always watching. They know when you don’t help with the dishes—” 

The girls shriek with laughter and tackle Silver to the ground. He lets out a dramatic breath of air. “Attack! I’m under attack! You’re attacking an invalid, how _dare_ —” Silver cuts his shouts short when he notices the three of them loitering in the foyer. Flint lifts his hand in an aborted greeting— he hasn’t seen Silver since they arrived in Savannah proper. 

“Girls,” Silver says, gently lifting the youngest girl off of him, setting her to the side. “Why don’t you go help your _P’dry_ with the sábado?” 

“ _Yona!_ ” The older girl protests. 

John smiles. “We’ll play later, I promise.” 

The girls grumble but disappear into the house. John stands, albeit shakily, using a crutch. Flint’s eyes fall to his lower leg, where the pant leg has been altered and sewn shut. He wears a similar cap to Nunez and the boy.

“Rebecca did that for me— Nunez’s wife.” Silver says and uses a crutch to limp over to a couch. “Sit, please. She'd have my head if she knew you all were just standing there, gaping at me like a bunch of fish.” 

Awkwardly, Flint takes a seat on a chair, Thomas, and Miranda on the loveseat. “Yona?” Flint asks, finally, breaking the silence. 

Silver hesitates. “My— John is just an English name. I was born Yonatan. I had to change it, of course.” 

“Would you prefer we call you—” Thomas begins, but Silver shakes his head. 

“No, no, I prefer John. Hebrew wouldn’t sound right on your tongue, anyways.” Silver says, and there’s his smile, the one that is so dangerous to Flint. “Are you going to introduce me to your witch?” 

“She’s not my—” 

“Witch?” Thomas says, with evident glee. “What do you mean, witch?” 

“Oh, there was this rumor, on the island, that I was James’ witch, sacrificing goats to keep him safe, making blood oaths, the usual. It was quite the rumor. Children even threw stones at me in the garden.” Miranda says, and even though her tone is light, Flint frowns. He notices Thomas frowning, too. 

“I missed so much,” He says, a bit sadly. 

“It’s okay,” Miranda says, taking his hand. “We’re all together now. You won’t miss another moment.” 

—

_2018_

They arrive back at Flint’s apartment, grocery bags in hand, and as Flint is unlocking the front door, Silver pauses. 

“You have a mezuzah?” 

Flint blinks and turns to look at Silver, the key still in the lock. He wants to lie, to say that the previous owners left it here and Flint never bothered to take it down, but he knows Silver will see through his lie. “Yes, I— for you.” 

“Thank you,” Silver says, reaching out with two fingers to touch the mezuzah, before bringing those fingers to his lips. 

Flint watches him. His heart feels like it’s about to burst, watching Silver look at the ornamentation on the door, a serene look gracing his face. His voyeurism is interrupted by Silver, turning back to Flint. 

“What are you doing?” Silver says, his forehead wrinkling. “Open the door! The frozens are melting!” 

—

The sun has fallen, and Flint, Miranda, and Thomas sit with Silver and Nunez’s impossibly large family at an impossibly large table. Rebecca, Nunez’s wife, stands over two candles, lighting them, before covering her eyes, and singing: 

_“Kun estas kandelas_  
_Arrogamos al Dio_  
_El Dio de muestros padres_  
_Avram, Isak i Yakov_  
_Ke muz de vida saludoza_  
_A todus miz keriduz_  
_I al mundo intero_  
_Kun estas kandelas_  
_Arrogamos al Dio_  
_El Dio de muestros madres_  
_Sara, Rifka, Lea i Rachel_  
_Ke muz de vida saludoza_  
_A todus miz keriduz_  
_I al mundo intero.”_

She takes her seat next to Nunez, who breaks woven bread and passes it to one of the younger boys, on the right. When the bread comes to Flint, he follows the lead of Silver, at the head of the table opposite of Nunez, ripping a piece of the loaf off, and passing it to Miranda, who gives it in turn to Thomas. 

“I must say, Rebecca, that was lovely. It was a blessing?” Thomas says.

“Yes, the Woman’s Prayer,” Rebecca says, smiling at Thomas, as if she is indulging him with this knowledge. 

“I assume this is your first _sábado?_ ” Nunez asks the three of them, the outsiders at the table. 

“I confess, it is,” Miranda says. 

“Joseph,” Nunez says. “Why don’t you explain why we take this day of rest?” Nunez turns to the three of them, winking conspiratorially. "It is his bar mitzvah soon, it’s good practice.”  


The eldest boy launches into an explanation of the dinner, the candles, waiting for sundown, to how the family will not work after their meal and will go to bed as soon as all the candles extinguish, and won’t bother to light new ones, no matter how early it is. 

“Fascinating,” Thomas says. “Is this often practiced in England? Or, Portugal, rather?” 

Silver, Rebecca, and Nunez exchange dark looks. 

“No,” Silver says, shortly. 

“Yona,” Nunez chides, gently. “They don’t know.” He turns in his seat, looking at Thomas. “We were not allowed to practice, in Portugal. It is why we left. We had to pretend we were Catholics, but of course, we were found. We escaped to London. We were able to practice there, but,” He hesitates. “Quietly. Very, very quietly. Here, it is much better.” 

“Can we not talk about this?” Silver says, reaching for the wine. “Please.” 

“Silver, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend—” Thomas apologizes.  
Silver shakes his head. “No, no, Hamilton, no offense taken. It’s just—” He looks at Flint, of all people, and says, “Bad memories, is all.” 

—

_2018_

Flint is chopping onions, while Silver finishes seasoning a chicken. He’s on his phone. 

“Yes, yes, _Ima_ , I’m fine, I made it back to the states. I’m with friends. Yes, we’re lighting candles. Okay. Yes, I promise to call you next week. Alright, love you too. Bye.” Silver’s hands are covered in rosemary and olive oil, so he holds the phone between his palms, and presses the _end call_ button with his nose before the iPhone clatters to the countertop. 

Flint raises his eyebrow in question. “Who was that?”

“Alice’s mother. She grew quite fond of me, especially in the last few months.” Silver says. “Asks me to call her every Friday.”  
Flint looks at the clock and does some mental math in his head. 

“Where does she live?” 

“Melbourne.” 

“Silver, it’s seven thirty in the morning there,” Flint says, before scooping the now-chopped carrots into a bowl. “You should let the woman sleep.” 

Silver snorts. “It’s not my fault she wants me to call her before Shabbat.” 

Flint pauses. He wondered why Silver asked to go grocery shopping, explicitly getting a loaf of Challah bread at the Publix. They’re celebrating the Sabbath this evening. They don’t— they don’t usually do this when they’re together. “Was your wife Jewish?” 

Silver nods, wiping his hands on a stray dishtowel, before looking at the now-seasoned chicken critically. “There’s quite a large Jewish population that immigrated there after World War II. Alice kept kosher, celebrated Shabbat, the whole shebang. Got me back in the habit.” 

“Well,” Flint says. “It’s good you keep in touch with her mother.” 

“Yeah, it’s easier, now that I’m back here. Yael-- Alice's mother-- was upset that Alice and I didn’t have kids, but—”

“Kids?” Flint says, turning. “How long were you two together?” Usually, when Silver falls in love with someone who is terminally ill, they’re on death’s door. 

“It would have been nine years this July.” Silver says, quietly. Flint blinks. That’s the longest relationship he’s ever known Silver to have. “When we met, she was really, seriously ill— breast cancer— but then she got a double mastectomy, went into experimental trials. She was in remission for— for so long. We talked about kids quite a bit. But then she got sick again.” 

Flint walks towards Silver and touches his elbow, briefly. “You told her?” He asks, his voice lowered, as if this is a secret as if even in the confines of his apartment, someone will overhear. 

Silver nods. 

“John—” 

“Don’t,” Silver says, suddenly, turning towards Flint. “I loved her. I haven’t loved anyone like her since-- since—” The oven dings, cutting Silver short. He shakes his head. “The oven’s done preheating. Will you put in the chicken? I’m going to go wash up.”  


Silver turns on the heel of his prosthetic and disappears into the apartment. 

—

After dinner, everyone retires to the sitting room, waiting for the candles to go down. The children, all six of them, apparently have a favorite game they enjoy playing. 

Rachel, the eldest daughter, stands at the front of the room, her fingers fiddling with the hem of her dress as she thinks. A few minutes ago, Rachel went outside, and the children— including Silver— decided a biblical figure for Rachel. Now, apparently, Rachel is to guess who she is. 

“Am I the sister of Moses?” Rachel guesses. 

Daniel sighs, his face falling. “Yes.” 

“I’m Miriam!” Rachel shouts, and they all applaud.

“I thought that was a hard one!” Daniel says, still crestfallen, turning to his mother, who kisses his head. 

“It was challenging, Daniel,” Rachel says, modestly. “I am just very, very smart.” 

The children groan and begin to chide Rachel, who holds her hands up as if to concede. “Alright, who is next?” 

“If I may,” Thomas interjects, a kind smile on his face. “I am very educated in the Hebrew Bible. Could I have a turn?” 

“Thomas—” Flint begins, because it’s really not necessary, they’ve already intruded enough, but Rachel claps her hands in glee. 

“Of course! Go outside, Mr. Hamilton!” 

Thomas exits the room with a bow that makes the children giggle, and once the door to the outside has shut, the children turn to each other, whispering conspiratorially. 

“We have to make it really hard!” Little Zipra says from Silver’s lap. 

“I have an idea,” Silver says, smiling, and leans in to whisper the figure to the children. They all nod solemnly in agreement, then look back to Silver. 

“Mr. Hamilton!” He calls, loud enough to be heard outside. Thomas re-enters the house and comes into the living room. 

“Am I a man?” He asks, and the children nod. 

“Am I a prophet?” The children shake their heads.

“Am I the son of a prophet?” The children nod again. 

Thomas taps a finger to his chin. “Hmm. Is my father a military leader?” 

The children nod. Thomas smiles. “Is my father Gideon?” 

“How did you know!” Esther shouts. “Did you overhear?” 

Thomas places a hand on his chest and looks shocked. “I would never! I just thought you might make this difficult for me, so I thought, who has the most sons of any biblical man? And Gideon, as you all know, has seventy sons.” 

Flint smiles behind his hand at the insufferable man that he loves so dearly. 

“Well?” Joseph asks from his seat near the dwindling fire. “Which son are you?” 

“Am I Abimelech?” Thomas asks. The children shake their heads. “Well, good. He was a terrible son, I’d hate to be him. I guess that makes me…” Thomas pauses for dramatic effect, like the fool he truly is, before gesturing grandly. “Jotham!” 

All the children burst into protest. “No fair! That was impossible to guess!” Esther shouts. “I didn’t even know that one, only Yona knew!” 

“Aha! So you were trying to trick me!” Thomas says with glee, turning towards Silver, who is laughing so hard he can’t say anything, but he waves one hand. 

“Alright, alright,” Nunez says, a fond smile on his face. “It’s off to bed, little ones.” 

“What!” Moses, the youngest boy, protests. “The candles haven’t even gone out yet!” 

“I know, but it’s late, and I have much to discuss with Mr. Silver’s friends. Off, off, all of you.” He shoos the children away, who leave the living room groaning, as Rebecca follows them out, leaving a parting kiss on Nunez’s cheek. 

“What do you have to discuss, Samuel?” Silver asks, confusion crossing his face. 

“Your living arrangements,” Nunez says, now that the children are gone. “You are more than well enough to leave our home, though, you are always welcome.” 

“I--” Silver starts, frowning before Flint sits forward. 

“We built a room for you,” He says, his elbows resting on his knees, twisting the rings on his fingers as he slowly, achingly, presents the idea to Silver. “Thomas and I, we built the house with more than enough room for you. If you’d like.” 

Silver blinks, confused. “I thought— at Oglethorpe’s plantation, you said I could return to my people.” 

Flint cocks his head. “Yes, well— I didn’t mean live with them, although, if that’s what you prefer, I understand—”

“Is the room ready?” Silver interrupts. 

Flint looks up. Before he can respond, Thomas interrupts, now seated, hand in hand with Miranda. “Yes. A bed and all, although, I have to admit, it’s not James’ best work. It was the first bed he built out of driftwood— a bit lopsided, unfortunately.” 

Silver looks to Nunez, who opens his hands as if gesturing to his home. “You’re more than welcome to stay here, but you’ll continue to share a room with Shem.” 

Silver shakes his head, turning back to the three of them. “It’s settled. I’ll return with you all back to this lopsided house.” 

“Hey!” Flint protests. “The house isn’t lopsided, only the bed!” 

—

 _2018_

Silver lights the candles but says the prayer in English. He wears a Kippah, the one Rebecca Nunez knitted for him all those years ago. Flint knows it's one of Silver's prized possessions. They break bread and drink wine, and Silver comments that the Publix challah is ‘actually, really good.’ 

After dinner, Flint begins to clear the plates, but Silver tells him to leave the work for tomorrow. 

“It’s Shabbat.” Silver says, with a wicked grin. “You’ll have to _rest_."

They retire to the comfortable leather couches by the electric fireplace, a book for the both of them. It’s comfortable. As the sky turns from blue to black outside, and he looks at Silver’s face, entranced by the pages of his book, he can’t help but think that he could get used to Silver’s return. 

“Shall we play ‘Who am I?’” Flint asks, suddenly, a teasing grin on his face. 

Silver throws a pillow at his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All italicized words are Ladino. Again, they may not be correct, so feel free to help!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The prayer Rebecca says is the Woman's Prayer, and sung, is really beautiful. Especially in Ladino. You can check it out [here.](https://www.haggadot.com/clip/candle-lighting-womans-prayer-lighting-candles-la-orasion-de-la-mujer)
> 
> Translation: 
> 
> With these candles  
> We pray to God  
> The God of our fathers  
> Abraham, Isaac and Jacob  
> To grant us good life and health  
> To all my dear ones  
> And the whole world  
> With these candles  
> We pray to God  
> The God of our mothers  
> Sarah, Rebecca, Leah and Rachel  
> To grant us good life and health  
> To all my dear ones and the whole world  
> With the (wonderful) influx of Jewish!John Silver fic, we've started a Jewish Black Sails discord, called [Nice Jewish Pirates](https://discord.gg/ZYUBV). All are welcome to join!
> 
>  
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When silence persists, Thomas continues. “Furthermore, I’ve grown to care for him immensely. Miranda as well. He’s much like yourself, my dear. You’re both hard men not to love.”_

Silver is recovering. Thomas is adjusting to freedom. Miranda is still unpacking, making their home livable. 

Their _home_. 

It’s a small thing, nothing like the massive home that Thomas and Miranda made together in London, but to Flint, it is everything. Every time he comes home to Miranda paying her pianoforte, to Silver and Thomas locked in a furiously competitive game of chess, listening to her play, Flint can feel his heart grow and stretch and expand to a place he never knew it could be. 

It was less than two months ago he wished he was dead and sinking into the blood-red salt waters of the Florida coast. 

Silver has effortlessly wormed his way into their routines, however fledgling they may be. Flint wakes at sunrise, to get a fire started to get a jumpstart on the cooking for the day. Miranda wakes next, to help with the cooking and to start the coffee for them (and chocolate for Silver and Thomas). Silver comes in next, looking no more well-rested than the day before. Flint isn’t sure he sleeps. Finally, Thomas, still relishing the fact he doesn’t have to wake at dawn to tend to crops, comes into the kitchen and asks how he can help. Often, by this time, breakfast is ready, so Thomas doesn’t have to help, which is good because Thomas is a terrible cook. 

Thomas and Silver then usually go into town together, Silver to speak with Nunez and the other Jews of Savannah. He’s forming fast friendships, and he often comes back for dinner talking about how the community is planning on building a Synagogue, and whether or not Flint can spare any of his earnings from his carpentry to donate to the building. 

Thomas often accompanies Silver to these gatherings. He’s trying to find work as a lettered man of great intelligence, though it’s proving to be difficult. Thomas has told Flint that he isn’t in a rush; he just gained freedom, and he sees no necessity to hurry into a bookkeeping job. 

Flint has a workshop on their land. He helps Miranda with the chores, to cook dinner, and when Silver and Thomas come home for their meal around noontime, they eat.

“Thomas has a job,” Silver announces, loudly, when they sit down together. Today there is a roast, an apple pie leftover from their bake day, baked pudding, pickles, cheese, and horseradish, with some lemonade Flint made on a whim. 

“Oh?” Flint says, helping himself to some roast vegetables. “Bookkeeping?” 

“Teaching,” Thomas says, seeming self-satisfied. “I was talking with Ya’acov Hernandez, and he was explaining to me the need for a school for the children. Since they aren’t farming much, there is no reason why they shouldn’t be in school longer. And my knowledge of the bible—”

“The _Christian_ Bible, Thomas,” Miranda interrupts, looking amused. “You can’t possibly teach them, you don’t even speak their language.” 

“Nunez and Hernandez want the children to have both a Hebrew and English education, so they’ll be prosperous in the New World,” Silver interjects, gesturing with his knife. “They want Thomas to provide the English, as, of course, he is the whitest man alive—” 

“Hey!” Thomas says, though there is no malice or offense to his words. “Besides, John is teaching me Ladino and Hebrew. Once you know one, the other isn’t so hard.” 

_John._

It shouldn’t bother Flint that Thomas and Silver have grown close. Infuriatingly, Silver has become close to Miranda as well. He is charming when he wants to be. The three of them, they don’t talk books or philosophy, but Silver entertains them, provides levity when the work seems too hard or the days grow long. Even Flint can admit the man can turn a phrase, tell a joke, weave a story that even makes _him_ chuckle. 

Miranda approached Flint the other day about taking him to bed. 

Furiously blushing over his chisel in the dark of his woodshed, he knew he looked caught and embarrassed and confused. “You need my permission?” He said, like a fool, like the first time Miranda came for _him_. 

He isn’t Silver’s keeper. He has no claim to him. Flint tried to express that to Miranda, stumbling over his words and unable to look her in the eye. 

He could see the appeal, in Silver, after all. To Miranda, at least. He tried to do his duty to her, over the years they were together, but nights spent together were few and far between. There hasn’t been much bedding in their new home, either. He and Thomas hold each other each night, clinging tightly together, afraid to be wrenched apart by some new or old foe, but they have yet to relearn each other biblically. The idea of sharing a bed with Miranda, like they once had in London, seems laughably far away. So, understandably, she would want to couple with Silver. He is, after all— 

Flint shakes his head and refocuses himself on his dinner.

—

_2018_

“God, _fuck,_ ” John groans, his back arching, his hair tight in Flint’s fist. “ _Please,_ Captain, just— right there—” 

Somehow, even after all these years, nothing can make him come faster than John calling him _Captain_. The only thing that was worse— or better?— was when the _three_ of them teamed up and called Flint by his honorifics. 

John lets out a strangled curse as Flint grunts and comes deep within in him. He relaxes his grip he has on the other man’s hips, untangles his hand from John’s hair, and collapses next to him. John remains, for a moment, on all fours. “James, honestly—” 

Flint tries to not look so smug. “What?” He says, innocently enough. 

“You know,” John sits back on his knees. “I hadn’t thought to consider the prowess one develops, sexually, over a tricentenary.” 

“Stop resting on your leg like that,” Flint scolds, rather than comment on John’s praise, or the flush it brings to his face. “You’ll get a cramp and complain all day.” 

“I’ll complain all day anyway,” John says, but acquiesces, and lays down next to Flint. There is quiet for a moment. 

After a beat too long, John says, finally, “You’ve stopped fighting.” 

There was a time, that if a country were entering a conflict that he supported, Flint would go fight on their side. Even in the case of Vietnam, where he didn’t support the cause, Flint entered the war, because it meant that one less young man would be conscripted. Flint was willing to lose his life. A poor, innocent boy who could stay home and _live_ , shouldn’t. 

“There’s no war worth fighting.” He says, shrugging, his shoulders struggling to move up and down as Silver’s head rests on them. “They’re all about money or race. No one fights for liberty. Justice. There’s no good reason—” 

“Yes, but wars have always been like that, except for maybe when you were killing Nazis for me,” John says, turning his head to stare at the scars on Flint’s chest. “I always thought you fought because you wanted to die. Is that not true anymore?”

Flint’s voice catches in his throat, and his heartbeat stutters. He hoped, had always hoped that his true reasons behind his action in so many conflicts were hidden to John. And John— how could he say it so _casually_ , as if Flint’s ideations were as matter-of-fact as the rising sun. “I don’t know what you mean,” He says, lying, his tone too casual. He knows what John meant. He always knows what John means.

“Please,” John says, his blue eyes looking at Flint’s, wide, open, trusting. A gaze of which Flint isn’t worthy. “James, after all these years, can’t you be honest with me?” 

Flint shifts on the bed so that he is sitting up, away from John, away from the window, away from the evening glow from the street lamps and city lights that illuminated the apartment. “A bold statement, from you.” 

John scoffs. “Oh, _do_ tell which century-old argument you’d like to rehash this time.” 

Flint should— really, the fight is too old. He shouldn’t rehash it, not when John has finally come back to him after too many years away. This fight, John’s non-betrayal, Flint’s jealousy— it’s hundreds of years old. It’s older than the country they stand on. It’s older than the two weather-worn graves on the sands of the coast of Georgia. 

Still, Flint aches for a fight, like he always does. He aches for the swords he once held, for the pistols and bayonets and ships and guns that once yielded in submission underneath Flint’s surefire hand. He wants to fight like he has a death wish, a death wish that has seen empires come and go, nations build and fall, wars fought and won. 

“You promised,” Flint says, finally, low and angry. “You promised you wouldn’t take them away from me.” 

—-

Flint is hoeing the Jerusalem Artichokes when Miranda puts down her watering can, sighs, and stretches her back. 

“You and Thomas should get a room at the inn tonight,” She says, turning towards Flint, her hair blowing in the breeze from the sea. “You need some time alone.” 

Flint grunts, turning over a particularly thick patch of soil. “Why’s that?” 

“I walked in on you staring at him over a teacup this morning. It’s like we’re in London again, James,” A bemused smile settles on her face, and for once, in a decade, Flint feels no guilt as he stands next to Miranda. 

There were many days like this, in Nassau. Most of them were early on before Flint met Gates. They bought the house— in disarray, for the price they got it— and together, side by side worked the land and the building into something livable. Together, through their labor, they plotted, they cried, they mourned. Then, Flint left. He left Miranda alone, to carry the task of managing a household alone, without servants or children or family to aid. The guilt he felt, when he would come back from days at sea to find Miranda in agony over housework, was all-consuming. 

Here, they toiled much the same. But they toiled together, and towards a greater end than just survival. Here and now, they work towards happiness. 

“We shouldn’t—” Flint starts, finally. “Not without you.” 

There’s a commotion from the path. It’s a cart, carrying Silver and Thomas and goods from a run into town. 

Miranda looks back towards him and smiles knowingly. “I know you’re not ready for that yet.” 

Thomas helps Silver down from the cart. They’re too far away for Flint to hear anything, but he can see the smiles on their faces, the laughter in the air silent but evident. 

“But soon,” Miranda continues. “Soon.” 

—

It feels odd, to fall into bed with Thomas, and to know that a few miles away, Miranda is doing the same with Silver. 

Flint isn’t naïve. There was an ulterior motive to Miranda’s suggestion this afternoon, and Flint isn’t blind to it. When Flint announced his intentions for a chess night at the Inn at dinner, he saw the glance that Silver and Miranda exchanged across the table. 

He isn’t Silvers keeper. Flint reminds himself of that. He isn’t Miranda’s keeper, either. If they choose to fall into bed together, then so be it. He will enjoy his night with Thomas. 

“My love,” Thomas says, gently, reproachingly, and Flint’s eyes are drawn back towards his lover’s face. “Are you alright? I know it’s been— I know I’m not—” 

Flint closes his eyes tightly shut and shakes his head. “Don’t finish that sentence, Thomas, please.” He croaks, finally. “It’s nothing to do with you, I swear it. My mind is… elsewhere.” 

Thomas hums thoughtfully. Ever so thoughtfully. “Where is it?” 

“Home,” Flint admits, his eyes opening, and finding Thomas’. “I know we only spent a few nights with Miranda, before, but I feel—” He shakes his head. “I feel guilty without her. I haven’t slept with anyone but her in a decade. I know we’re—” 

Thomas shushes him soothingly. “My dear, please, I understand. I’m hesitant about this as well. But she has John, you mustn’t worry—” 

Thomas must feel the way Flint tenses under his hands, because he pauses, before sitting upright, looking thoughtful. “Is that what is bothering you so? The thought of Miranda and John?” 

Flint immediately shakes his head. “You know I don’t care for him—” 

“James,” Thomas says. “Please, darling, try to be honest with yourself. You care for him immensely.” 

Flint doesn’t deign to respond. 

Blue eyes watching green, Thomas continues, albeit with a careful tone. “James, you allowed him to accompany you for weeks across the Floridian coast. You stayed by his side after he lost his leg. You invited him into our home. You made room for him in our home. No matter your relationship prior to these past few weeks, I think you _must_ have made room for him in your heart.” 

When silence persists, Thomas continues. “Furthermore, _I’ve_ grown to care for him immensely. Miranda as well. He’s much like yourself, my dear. You’re both hard men not to love.” 

—

_2018_

“So, what, after all these years, you still won’t admit that you were wrong?” John is pacing the room, back and forth, his sock feet sliding against the hardwood floors. “I told you, over and over again, that something was wrong. That something was wrong with us, and you didn’t _act_.” 

Flint shakes his head, the pads of his forefingers rubbing his temples. He could feel a migraine forming. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, John—” 

“No illness for five years. Not a single grey hair. Not a cough. Not a cold. Not one thing. I mentioned it over and over again, and you dismissed me every time. You waited until the last second! Until there was no other way!” 

“It was outlandish!” Flint says, standing, and John stops pacing abruptly. “It _is_ outlandish. This isn’t something that’s supposed to happen, John! Even if I—” He pauses, biting his lip, not wanting to finish that sentence. He knows the fresh wave of grief and trauma that sentence brings, even if the grief is as old as time. “I still wouldn’t want to inflict this on them. Not for one more day with them, not for three hundred more years with them.” 

“Well,” Silver says, his eyes cold. “I would.” 

—

Flint stands in the doorway as Thomas crosses the threshold of the bedroom, takes Silver’s face in his hands, and kisses him soundly and thoroughly. 

His eyes catch Miranda’s, her pale skin glowing in the candlelight, her gaze warm and inviting, her legs spread like a feast waiting to welcome him home. 

And he steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY, SHE'S HERE. Yikes, this chapter took forever!
> 
> Please head newly added warnings! 
> 
> Up next: Foursomes!
> 
> As always, follow me on tumblr [@flawlessassholesfic](www.flawlessassholesfic.tumblr.com).


End file.
